Current mood:

predatory

and the most she will do is throw shadows at you.
As a rule she had carved for her own life she refuted to look away from the eyes of the chaos when it splintered the silence around her.

Wrapped in the disquiet of the raging streams and winter’s chill, her form seems blurred at the edges, seemingly melting into the stretching grey and white of the world. The sun doesn’t warm; the sky doesn’t quilt. In the deprivation of peace, she can feel tremors ripping the heart of the earth and a brutal smile seizes her as she treks through the wild with blood stained clothes – hardly taking notice of the haphazard pattern dried into an undistinguishable shade of russet brown on her worn white clothing as well as her skin, making of her some primitive creature caught in the static of its own thoughts.

And wasn't she born restive? This angry one, the one who let herself so easily sink into the thrill of rage and then always countered it with her own brand of scathing cold now walks detached from the world, which she knows in her incisive meanderings has suffered yet another blow by those who would never dare ascend into the circles of this proverbial hell so far away from home to feel the very life crawl upon their skins as merely a passionless [loathed] kiss before darkness snuffs it all.

Once a curse for the dispossession, twice the words for the stroke that fell and thrice the admonition for herself for letting the least echo of the past still affect her as it does.

And in the euphoria of unleashed senses, the world unfolds before her vision in a flat singular line, which can be followed to a distinct end now.

Laughter.

Then there is nothing.